


What You Wish For

by morganasmyths



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom, Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms, johnlock - Fandom
Genre: Complete, Cuddle, Cuddling, First Kiss, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-14
Updated: 2017-02-17
Packaged: 2018-09-24 11:24:39
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,454
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9722165
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/morganasmyths/pseuds/morganasmyths
Summary: Lestrade figures out that Sherlock is in love with John. He confides in an old friend, even though she's annoying, because he knows she won't tell.What he doesn't know is that John is listening.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Just another little thing I scribbled - hope it makes someone happy :)  
> Might do a part 2? If someone requests I guess.

"What makes you so sure that Sherlock loves John?" Yasmine asked. 

Lestrade shook his head and looked down into his coffee. There was silence for a moment as he replayed the moment in his mind.

"The way he holds him."

"What?"

"The way Sherlock holds John. John always assumed the hugs were casual - nothing to them - which I guess they were for him."

"But...?"

"But... Sherlock, he - he doesn't just hug John. He holds him, gathers him up and holds him with everything he has. John is everything he has. It's always protective, arms cradling, face buried, as if he'd rather die than let go. Sherlock barely touches any other human being."

"He hugs you."

"Yeah because I'm his friend and it took a long time to get there," he explained, a hint of frustration to his tone. "But I know Sherlock. I've been watching Sherlock for years - not necessarily out of choice before you ask - and I have never seen that man in love."

"But he's in love with John Watson."

"Sherlock Holmes is so in love with John Watson that he would lay down his friendship with him, the thing he cherishes most in the world, rather than watch Moriarty touch a hair on his head."

There was silence. John Watson's heart was beating so hard he was sure they would hear. Blood drummed in his ears, heat licked at his fingertips, the chill of the February air was long since lost. 

"But I worry about him, you know," Lestrade continued. "He's never known so much emotion, he depends upon John and John just doesn't see it. John doesn't understand that he is Sherlock's whole world. I see it in his eyes - fear."

"Fear of telling John?"

"No, God knows he wants to tell John - God knows he wants to scream it from the rooftops, one day he might bloody explode if he never does."

"So it's about how John feels then?" Yasmine concluded.

Lestrade nodded pityfully. "It's always about how John feels. In Sherlock's world there is no other opinion... No other reason to do something than if John wants to."

"Well, I suppose it makes sense if nothing else. John is his world," Yasmine said, lifting her coffee to her lips.

Lestrade hummed in agreement. 

Silence reigned again. John's heart was still drumming hard against his ribs. How had he missed such a colossal part of Sherlock?

"Sometimes I wish John knew," Lestrade said quietly. "For Sherlock's sake - sometimes I wish Sherlock just got everything he ever wanted."

"Surely that would have caused some issues," Yasmine giggled.

Lestrade let out a weak laugh too. "Yeah, maybe once upon a time it would have."

"But now..." She trailed off. She didn't need to finish.

"But now," Lestrade agreed, and they stood up from the bench.

~ (italics) Sherlock Holmes is so in love with John Watson that he would lay down his friendship with him, the thing he cherishes most in this world, rather than watch Moriarty touch a hair on his head. (italics end) ~

The words ricocheted through John's mind like bullets, piercing every wall he had built with his mind. Those walls of whose strength he had been so sure. He could feel them collapsing, he could feel himself collapsing. His knees crumpled, his breathing shuddered, the ground soared closer. 

If they walked back this way they would see him, they would know that he knew. But they didn't. They stood up from the bench and walked away. Lestrade may not be Sherlock, but he was never wrong. 

The man took a sip of his coffee.

It was cold.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> John returns to 221B with the knowledge that Sherlock loves him. It's strange, but I suppose rationality will have to wait when thunderstorms ensue. 
> 
> TW// ptsd in this chapter, sorry

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is actually a decent length - hope you enjoy x

John was out. Again. Sherlock stared at his tea, eyes glazed. He found himself in this position often when John was out and shook himself awake. Even when John wasn't here he was all he could think of. 

The ringing of the doorbell was the most interesting thing that had happened since his tea went cold, so Sherlock decided to investigate. It wasn't John - his keys weren't on the mantlepiece. That meant it was someone else. 

It was Lestrade. He'd clearly been outside for a while, traces of a coffee were obvious too. grinned at Sherlock as he appeared and opened his mouth to say something but Sherlock simply stepped out of the way. Lestrade nodded and entered. 

"Just came to check on you," he said cheerfully once they made it to the living room. "How's the beach case going? A couple of lads at the Yard knew one of the deceased - always rough that, when you're involved."

He walked across to where Sherlock's gun lay between the books on the shelves. Clean and loaded. Not a shot of boredom - exactly what Lestrade feared. He's been spending time in thought again. 

Sherlock hummed in agreement. "I haven't solved it yet."

"I can see that," Lestrade chuckled, tearing his eyes away from the gun and moving to stand next to Sherlock looking at the back wall. There was the usual array of suspects and locations pinned around, occasional weapons and red thread weaving them together. A true Sherlockian masterpiece for those willing to admire, a mess for those not so. 

"You've been in thought again."

"I would hope so. It is my job."

"Sherlock, I might not be a genius but I am a detective inspector and your friend. We both know the difference between thinking and thought. "

Sherlock said nothing. 

"How long have you been in love with John?"

A new kind of silence settled across the room. It was lighter and heavier at the same time and made the dust dance on the countertops. Neither looked at the other.

"A while."

That was all Lestrade needed. He understood Sherlock. A while did not just mean a few days or months. It meant a while - years. It didn't really matter how long in truth, the question served a completely different purpose. 

A car pulled up outside. Sherlock stiffened.

"Strength, soldier," Lestrade muttered, resting a hand briefly on Sherlock's shoulder, before turning and making his way down the stairs to greet John at the door. 

Sherlock’s eyes were facing the wall ahead but his mind was listening to the conversation downstairs. There was nothing strange in what they said, just the usual pleasantries, however there was an air around John that he could already feel, a weight in his tone of voice. Something was making him upset, or thoughtful. It’s remarkable how often the two go hand in hand.

Regardless of whichever one it was, Sherlock was determined to make his John feel better again. No, he clenched his eyes shut and squeezed the bridge of nose. John. Not his John – just John. Why must his mind be so determined to constantly blur the lines of wish and reality?

Butterflies began to stir in his stomach as heard the familiar thuds of John's feet hitting the stairs as he made his way up slowly and his body began to realise he would be seeing John again soon. But there was definitely something wrong - John usually ascends them much faster. Sherlock's mind automatically began racing with the different possibilities of whatever this wrong could be but he stopped himself - this was John. He did not pry if John didn't want him to. He would not ask questions, he would simply be a friend. 

John had reached the doorway but didn't move. This confused Sherlock even more. Surely the man would at least want a cup of tea? He could feel John's eyes on him and his heart began to race. The silence was unbearable. 

"Rough journey?" Sherlock asked, trying to sound casual and not yet turning to look at John. John didn't reply. At this Sherlock did turn, and the expression on his face was entirely unreadable. Whatever he was feeling, he wasn't happy and that would not do.

Sherlock took a couple strides forwards until he was in front of him and slowly moved forward to wrap his arms around him. John let him. That was a good sign. He made sure to hug him carefully, he couldn't completely let loose as he was in danger of exposing his true feelings and potentially losing John which could never, never happen. Gently, gently, he slipped his arms around his waist until they settled around his small frame. He could feel the tension in John from here and was determined to free him of it, moving his left hand upwards towards the back of his neck and pressing his whole body closer.

He pressed his face softly into John's shoulder, inhaling his scent and he was here. In John's arms, his favourite place in the world. His heart was filled with so much love that if John could see his face he was so sure he would give himself away immediately. But John simply pressed closer, gripping to Sherlock's shirt and resting his forehead on his shoulder. The tension remained. 

They stayed like this until Sherlock tore himself away, afraid that John might suspect something and headed to the kitchen to put on the kettle. He poured two mugs before John mumbled something about going upstairs and disappeared seconds later. 

Sherlock turned back to the tea. Here he was, once again, staring into a cup of tea, wishing he was in John's arms. 

~

John sat on his bad, staring at the wall, mind racing in circles and circles. How different that hug had felt, and he had taken the other ones for granted. He felt as though for the first time he understood Sherlock, he understood the sentiment behind the hug, how much Sherlock wanted to do and say but couldn't - didn't - because it was all about how John felt. 

His thoughts were interrupted by a shy knock on the door. Sherlock entered slowly, gingerly offering a mug of tea. John looked at him - observed him. Sherlock's shoulders were raised slightly and there was a small quiver to the hand not holding the mug. His eyes were wide with earnest but something fell in them after a second.

"I'll just uh... Take this downstairs-" he began but John cut him off.

"No, no, no... I want it," he gushed, hoping that that might restore the brightness to Sherlock's eyes. It did. John let a small smile creep onto his expression and subsequently a large one broke out on Sherlock's. He handed him the tea.

"Thanks."

"No problem." 

Then he left. John gazed down at the tea in his hands. How had he not seen this in Sherlock? It seemed so obvious now but the newly nagging question was: how did he feel about it?

He wasn't sure. He'd never really considered it. The chemistry between them was natural and cherished by both. Perhaps more by one side than the other. John didn't know anymore - his whole life had changed in less than ten minutes and now everything felt strange. 

He walked over to his window to look at the sky. It was dark. It was late. He had been out for quite a while. John gazed down at his tea once more before raising it to his lips and taking a sip. 

The warmth of the tea made him feel sleepy - trust Sherlock to remember not to use caffeinated tea this late at night. There were parts of him that were oddly domestic like that, and it was endearing to John. Those little things seemed so small yet such a relevant part of their life. He glanced towards the bed - soft and inviting. May as well give in and try to sleep.

He finished his tea, got changed and tucked himself under the sheets. This was a strange night. The first he would spend in the knowledge that Sherlock Holmes was in love with him.

The sweet tone of the violin began downstairs and a smile broke out on John's face. Beautiful and melancholy, his eyelids felt heavier already. The warmth from the tea, the softness of the bed and the sweetness of the music combined quickly pulled him down into sleep.

~

John woke up in cold sweat. He had been dreaming again. Dreaming of the war. The nightmare had shaken him to the core, he was shivering from the chill and reached for more blankets that had slid away during the night when a sudden clap of thunder flashed bombs in front of his eyes and his breath choked in his throat.

Thunderstorm. 

He didn't cope well with thunder. Every time he heard a bang the memories came flooding back - gun fire and bodies and explosions. His eyes began to sting and he gripped the sheets with white knuckle, clenching his eyes shut and desperately trying to steady his breathing.

Think of something else, he screamed at himself in his head, ignoring the involuntary shock through his body with the following clap of thunder. Think of something calm, something lovely.

His mind flickered to the hug earlier today and he found himself wishing to be back there, in that embrace and safeness and no-questions-asked atmosphere. 

The thunder exploded again and John's body shook, trauma racking through his body like electricity and he almost cried out. All he wanted was Sherlock. All he wanted was Sherlock's arms around him as they had been earlier today and to be buried safely in his chest. 

Another rumble of thunder crashed through the sky and a streak of lighting blazed and hit a satellite outside, sending sparks flying and noise shooting us John's bone and shivers exploding down his spine. His mind flittered between the bombs and the room and the guns and his shaking limbs and he cried out, tears spilling over his cheeks. 

John was shaking and crying, he couldn't control it. He hadn't had a PTSD attack in a while but that didn't make this one any less vivid. All he see were bodies flying, bombs exploding, earth shattering, the empty glare of the dead. All he felt was cold, ricocheting through his bones and suddenly a warm hand, pressing softly to his arm.

At first he jerked away, terrified that the nightmare had come true to terrorise him, but eventually a whole arm slipped its way around his waist and pulled him close to a large, warm body. He hadn't even noticed Sherlock enter, but he was more than grateful when he felt himself being gathered up in those familiar arms and a chin resting on his shoulder, whispering words of comfort. 

Gunfire and bombs still racked through his bones, and his breathing came out in choked sobs, but John did his best to turn and bury himself into Sherlock, into his safe, warm embrace and held tightly to his shirt until his knuckles turned white. He never wanted to let go. 

Sherlock's soothing whispers continued as he gripped John tighter, hugging him impossibly close and entangling their legs for even more comfort. They stayed like this, intertwined, together, for a long time. The thunderstorm pounded on outside, but John was wrapped up in Sherlock arms and he was not letting go. 

Eventually his breathing levelled out and his grip loosened slightly. Sherlock took that as his cue to leave and began to move away but John's hands tightened on his shirt.

"N-no," he choked out, voice thick with tears. "Sta-ay please." 

His voice cracked as he spoke and Sherlock needed no more persuasion. He gathered John up into his arms, holding him close with everything he had and feeling John press his face up into his neck and shoulder. 

Maybe just this once, he could let himself go and hold John with all the love he felt. Just this once. 

~

John woke up alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't worry - the kiss and fully happy ending are coming very soon - M x


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> johnlock
> 
> that's it that's the summary it's literally just fluff

The cold morning breeze nipped at Sherlock's cheeks where the collar of his coat didn't reach. He felt guilty about leaving John there - in fact it had been the last thing he had wanted to do - but he couldn't face John in the morning. He'd let himself go and my god, it was beautiful.

But it was painful, because now every time he looked at John he was reminded how warm and perfect it felt to be wrapped up in his arms or cuddling him close to his chest, yet he was forced to realise that this would never happen again. 

Lestrade had called him out this morning to the park for a coffee. They sat in silence on a bench in front of a large, thick oak tree, the branches leaning out above them. 

"What are you going to do, Sherlock?" he asked.

"Do?" 

"Stop acting up Sherlock. What are you going to do about John?"

There was silence.

"I don't know," Sherlock whispered. Lestrade looked at him softly. 

"I don't want your pity Lestra-"

"Believe me you haven't got it," he interrupted. "I think you're a ridiculous man who needs to get the hell on with it."

"But what about John?" Sherlock retorted defensively.

"It's always about John!" Lestrade cried.

"Of course it's always about John he's the most importa-"

"Sherlock."

Sherlock didn't dare challenge that tone. He quietened down. 

"You need to tell him."

"I'm not good at that."

"Then show him," Lestrade said, turning to face Sherlock properly. "I know John is the world you but you have to look at yourself too. If he's your world then you are part of it and you have every right to be as happy as he does."

Sherlock's head dropped to look st his coffee, slowing growing colder in his hands. 

"John doesn't love me."

Sherlock's tone was so heart-wrenchingly poignant that despite his promise Lestrade almost did pity him. Sherlock never deserved such torture, especially not when he has fought so hard to discover his true feelings.

"Oh Sherlock, John loves you more than anything in the world," Lestrade said softly. Sherlock's gaze lifted. "Do you really believe after everything you've done for him he could feel any other way?"

There was silence for a while longer. The coffee was forgotten. 

"Sometimes I wish John knew," Lestrade sighed. He didn't say anything else. He didn't need to. There was an unspoken understanding that Lestrade wanted Sherlock to be happy, and to be happy with John. 

Sherlock always appreciated Lestrade, even if he was crap at showing it. He knew that Lestrade understood him he was always grateful to feel like he wasn't alone in the world, that he had a friend in Lestrade who stood up for him against the officers at Scotland Yard, who wanted to best for him, who would drag him out in the early morning to help him sort his life out. 

Sherlock didn't know how to voice this, so he simply settled with an agreement.

"Me too."

-

The door to 221B closed quicker than normal. Familiar footsteps ascended the stairs faster than normal. Sherlock wasn't the only one who perceived these things.

John had had more than enough time to think about how he felt about Sherlock loving him and the way they slept last night, and every time he thought about it a warm feeling spread across his chest and he couldn't quite believe that it had happened.

That was proof alone that he was very much in love with Sherlock Holmes too. It had always been there, only unrecognised.

So when Sherlock entered the room, John turned to gaze at him and simply stare at the man in front of him that was his. All his. Sherlock quickly became aware of John's eyes on him as he took off his coat and straightened out his top an old t-shirt of John's that he had pinched. 

He shifted uncomfortably underneath John's intense gaze, though something inside was happy that he was the subject of John's focus. 

"John I need to tell you something.""

The corner of John's lips twitched. He knew what Sherlock was going to say, and his heart fluttered. Sherlock was a brave man, braver than most people gave him credit for. John stayed silent as an invitation for Sherlock to continue.

Sherlock's heart was beating hard and his breathing faltered. John was staring at him in a way he didn't understand, as if he knew everything about Sherlock, but there was something deeper, more intense. 

Then it clicked.

John knew.

Sherlock's breath hitched and almost stopper completely. His heart dropped to his stomach and he felt the blood drain from his face.

"You know," he choked, his eyes stinging. If John felt the same he would have done something, said something. The fear of rejection welled up inside Sherlock, threatening to burst as John nodded. 

There was a heavy silence, Sherlock couldn't meet John's gaze. A single tear slipped from his eye and he swiped it hastily away. 

"I'm just gonna go-" he began.

"Don't you dare." 

His whole body froze as those strong words ricocheted through the room. Sherlock looked up to John as he stepped closer, his eyes full of concern as he raised a hand to his cheek, gentle brushing his fingers across his cheekbones. His expressions turned very slightly to horror as he realised there were tears on Sherlock's face. His brow creased in anger as he touched his finger softly to the trail the tear had left. His face was impossibly close and Sherlock could feel his warm breath against his cheek. John turned his face slightly to look at Sherlock's closed eyes. 

John was angry with himself. He had caused this. He had caused this beautiful man to cry.

That would not do.

He pressed himself closer, sliding one hand to cup Sherlock's jaw as the other gripped his shirt.

Sherlock felt John's hand on his cheek and the other on his chest. His eyes fluttered open to gaze into John's, pouring all the emotion he had through those beautiful blue irises. Then John leaned up and softly pressed his lips to Sherlock's. 

Butterflies erupted in his stomach and warmth exploded across his chest. All Sherlock could feel was John's lips on his own, moving slowly, kissing him softly, as if he were the most precious thing in the world. John parted their lips, his tongue gently moving with Sherlock's and suddenly he began to truly feel his love for his beautiful man, a deep burning in his chest as though something had clenched his heart and with this kiss suddenly released it. 

He wrapped his arms around John, gathering him close as he had done so many times before. One arm slid around his waist pulling him closer, the other reached to the back of his neck. He subconsciously tangled his fingers in the hair at the nape of John's neck, his entire being feeling as though it were complete. 

They stayed like that for a long time, in a strange ethereal limbo, sometimes kissing, sometimes just breathing, always just holding each other tightly as if their lives depended on it, faces buried in the others neck.

Sherlock Holmes was so impossibly in love with John Watson, simple little words could not fathom how much his heart belonged to him.

"I love you," he whispered, his voice cracking slightly, causing him to bury further into John. John closed his eyes and pulled him tighter.

"I love you too. More than anything in the world."

-

They spent the rest of the day together in the flat, kissing and cuddling and relishing in the fact that they could. Right now, they found themselves snuggled in Sherlock's chair, watching some crappy television show, John on Sherlock's lap and Sherlock's arms wrapped protectively around him. John's head rested on Sherlock's chest. He giggled as Sherlock once again got frustrated at the stupidity of the show. 

Eventually he let out a yawn, stretched, and cuddled further into Sherlock, eyes closed and perfectly content as he was. He loved being here, in Sherlock's arms. Given the choice, he would happily spend the rest of his life here, but Sherlock was having none of that. A sleepy John was a snuggly John, but no matter how snuggly he was, Sherlock wasn't going to let him go without bed. 

Slowly he moved his arms to underneath John's back and legs, and with him cradled carefully to his chest. He stood, keeping his movements fluid so as not to jolt John too much. After a moment, John realised they weren't in the chair anymore and opened his eyes to find himself being carried down the corridor to Sherlock's bedroom, Sherlock's face pressing affectionate kisses to his forehead. 

John signed in happiness. Upon reaching the bedroom, Sherlock lay him carefully down on the bed and gave John some pyjamas to change into. When they had both changed, Sherlock lifted the sheets from underneath John and slipped beneath them, instinctively reaching an arm around John and pulling him closer. 

For a moment John simply cherished the feeling of being wrapped in Sherlock's arms before turning to face him. He was met with the full force of Sherlock's ardency, no disguise or pretence. Just Sherlock and his love. There was something beautifully raw about his gaze that struck deep in John. 

Sherlock stared at him adoringly, wondering how his life could have possibly worked out so well. He brought their lips together again, tongues moving together, tasting, cherishing the other. Eventually they parted, and John pressed his face into the crook of Sherlock's neck. There they lay until their breathing evened into sleep. 

-

John did not wake up alone that morning. He woke up in the most perfect pair of arms ever sculpted. He woke up to a pair of lips in his hair and, upon realising he was awake, his own. 

Sherlock pressed a final kiss to his neck before mumbling something about tea and tearing himself away from the embrace. He wandered to the kitchen feeling giddy and lightheaded, unable to keep a smile off his face and he stumbled through the flat. His hair was ruffled by sleep, but his skin was alive with John's touch and his heart was rejoicing in the knowledge that he was finally able to give all of himself to John. He reached for the kettle and began the process of making tea, which in the early morning was more of an auto-pilot reaction to waking. 

As he poured the mugs, a very sleepy John pressed his warm body against Sherlock's back and slithered his arms around his waist, resting his head on his shoulder, eyes closer and a small smile on his face. 

And Sherlock thought that if it were possible for him to fall anymore in love with that man he just did. Here he was, staring into a cup of tea, cradled in John's arms; everything he ever wished for.


End file.
